


Unconventional Medicine

by Bold_as_Brass



Series: An Unconventional Affair [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Dubious Consent, First Time, Humor, M/M, Medical Kink, Prostate Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft consults John about a rather delicate medical problem and ends up receiving a very thorough examination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt asking for Doctor John to give someone their first prostate exam and for them to thoroughly enjoy it.

John finished updating his notes, checked the desk clock - 19:55 - and pressed the intercom button on his phone.

“Okay,” he searched mentally for the receptionist’s name: it was his first time locuming at this surgery, “Nick, is that me done for the day?”

“It’s Rick, Doctor Watson.”

John winced. “Sorry, sorry.” _Never_ forget the name of the receptionist.

“There’s one last patient, I’ll send him up to you, shall I?”

 _Never_ forget the name of the receptionist because inevitably they would give you the late arrival with the long and complicated medical history in retaliation.

“Okay. Have I got their notes?”

“No he’s just come in, last minute appointment. A Mr Holmes. I’m sending him through now.” The intercom clicked off.

Sherlock? A case? John checked his mobile – no messages. He’d left Sherlock at Barts happily playing with a new contraption designed to mimic arterial blood spurts. Nick – Rick – hadn’t sounded as though he’d just been confronted by a mad man covered in blood.

The door between reception and the doctors’ examination rooms buzzed open. Slow deliberate footsteps made their way up the corridor. That didn’t sound like Sherlock either; he either strode along like a conquering hero or dragged his feet like a sullen teenager. Perhaps he was carrying something.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said cautiously and turned his chair to face whatever it was Sherlock had decided needed his attention.

The door swung open.

“Hello John,” said Mycroft Holmes.

“Oh,” said John, he blinked. “Hello?” He tipped sideways to see if Sherlock, or to be honest Anthea, were standing out in the corridor but apparently Mr Holmes Senior had come alone.

Mycroft gave his most wintery smile. He was impeccably turned out as usual, carrying an umbrella and briefcase but there were dark shadows beneath his eyes and an unhealthy pallor to his skin.

“Um, Sherlock’s not here, I’m afraid.”

“I know,” said Mycroft. “My brother is at St Bartholomew’s and likely to stay there until he has run out of blood.”

“Please tell me he’s not using his own blood?” said John momentarily distracted.

“He’s not using his _own_ blood,” said Mycroft. He didn’t make it sound at all reassuring. “No, John, it’s you I’ve come to see.”

“Really? Oh well, grab a seat then.” John indicated the patient’s chair by his desk. Mycroft inspected it dubiously for a moment then deigned to sit. “So what can I do for you?”

“I find myself in need of a doctor.”

“Well you’re in the right place. Are you registered here?” It wasn’t impossible John supposed. The surgery was fairly central, not that far from Whitehall, but if he’d thought about it at all he’d imagined Mycroft would use some private physician in an expensive house just off Harley Street. One with a tastefully decorated waiting room and real oil paintings on the walls rather than bog-standard NHS plastic chairs and three-month-old copies of _Chat!_

“Temporarily.”

“How temporarily?”

“As of three minutes ago.”

“Oh,” John tilted his head in enquiry but Mycroft’s expression was at its blandest. "So, what seems to be the matter?”

“I have,” said Mycroft, “a rather delicate problem.”

“Okay,” said John when the pause had extended for almost half a minute. “Are you going to tell me what it is? Only we shut at eight.”

Mycroft studied him a moment longer. The whites of his eyes were slightly bloodshot. “I think perhaps this was a mistake,” he said eventually and began gathering up his things.

John felt the prompting of his Hippocratic Oath; despite his waspish demeanour, Mycroft did look rather unwell. “Sorry, sorry. Look, if it helps, don’t think of me as John. Think of me as your doctor.” He smiled in a manner which he hoped was appropriately doctorly: approachable but professional. “Doctor John.”

“Doctor John,” said Mycroft. In as far as it was possible for a Holmes to look doubtful, he did.

“Doctor John,” said John firmly. “Now what seems to be the problem? I can assure you, I've heard them all before.”

Mycroft became very interested in the cuticles of his well-manicured nails. “I find myself experiencing,” he said finally, “urgency.”

“Urgency?” said John blankly. A flash of annoyance crossed Mycroft’s face; clearly he shared Sherlock’s dislike of being repeated. “Um, urinary urgency?”

“Quite.”

“I see.” Right first time; that was a turn up, “Well that’s-”

“It plays havoc with negotiations,” Mycroft burst out, his pale face suddenly suffused with pink.

“Well yes,” said John. “I can see it would.” He could. The long careful hours of diplomatic discussions probably didn’t lend themselves well to sudden dashes from the negotiating table. “Okay.”

He considered Mycroft thoughtfully. Bit young for prostate problems, high stress life-style, probably didn’t get a lot of exercise, possible infection, might be diabetes...? Interesting that he didn’t feel comfortable going to his own doctor about it. Ella would probably diagnose trust issues.

“Right,” he said finding a pen and pad and bringing himself back into doctor mode. “Any new medications?”

“No.”

John made a note. “Unexpected weight loss?”

Mycroft looked at him sharply; John looked back.

“No.”

“Unusual thirst?”

“No.”

Probably not diabetes then. “Blurred vision?”

Mycroft thought. “Occasionally.”

“Headaches?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Would you say you were under a lot of stress?”

Mycroft gave a humourless snort. “Always,” he said.

“Drink a lot of caffeinated drinks, tea, coffee, that sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

“Thought about switching to decaff?”

Mycroft didn’t dignify that with a reply. England would fall, John thought.

“Getting enough sleep?”

“The usual four hours,” said Mycroft.

“Any lower back pain?”

“No.”

“Discomfort when passing water?”

“No,” said Mycroft. He looked mildly repulsed.

“Have you brought a sample, urine sample?”

The look of revulsion deepened. “Certainly _not_.”

Because that would make things far too straightforward. “Okay then, hop up on to the bed for me.”

Mycroft glanced across the room to where the examination table stood, discreetly surrounded by a curtain. For the first time since John had known him, he seemed slightly hesitant.

“Why?” he said.

John smiled in his best, most approachable yet professional, manner. “Just need to give you a quick examination,” he said.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment longer then went to lie on the table, hands folded primly over his stomach, legs crossed at the ankle.

“How long is it since you had a physical?” John asked as he washed his hands.

Mycroft gave a light laugh. “Oh, I hardly have the time for things like that.”

“I see.” Typical bloody alpha male, ran themselves into the ground and wondered why they had a heart attack at fifty. “You do have a regular GP though?”

“Oh yes. Doctor Pearson. I’ve had him since childhood.”

“Good. Rest your hands by your sides, please.”

John worked his way carefully down Mycroft’s abdomen. Liver seemed normal. No tenderness around the kidneys. No indication of discomfort around the bladder. Nothing untoward.

“But you didn’t want to see him today?” he asked when he’d finished.

“No,” said Mycroft crisply.

John sighed. It had been a long day and he really wasn’t in the mood to play guessing games with the world's most repressed Englishman.

“All right,” he said. “Sit back up. I should have a leaflet.” he returned to the desk and began hunting through the drawers: _Managing your Menopause_ : nope; _Picking the Right Birth Control for You!_ he gave Mycroft a covert glance: probably not; _Walking for Health_ , worth a go? Mycroft sat up and watched, his expression sardonic: maybe not this time. _The Overactive Bladder_ , gotcha. “Here we go.”

“So what I suggest is cutting down on the caffeine, take paracetamol for any resulting headaches. Have a look at the leaflet; it offers some suggestions, give them a go. Try - I realise this may be difficult - to set some time aside each day for relaxation. If you’re still having problems in a fortnight come back, bring a urine sample, they’ll run some more tests.”

“I see,” said Mycroft. He folded the leaflet without looking at it and put it into his pocket. “And that's it, is it?”

“Sorry?”

“That’s all you’re going to do?”

“Well,” said John, and frowned, “you don’t appear to have a UTI so I don’t see any need for antibiotics. You’re not reporting any of the main symptoms of diabetes. I’d say you have a slight weakness in the PC muscles which, compounded by a high caffeine intake and stress, is what’s causing the problem.”

“Hm,” said Mycroft, he sniffed. “Well, they do say the NHS is going to the dogs.”

John smiled in a way that was neither professional nor approachable. “Say again?”

“Hardly a comprehensive consultation, _Doctor_ John.”

“What did you want? Cup of tea, nice chat about the weather? I’m working here, Mycroft. KPIs. Eight minutes per consultation, four minutes write up.”

“I hardly see how you can diagnose anyone in eight minutes. Doctor Pearson never took less than an hour.”

“Doctor Pearson's on the make then, mate,” said John frankly and saw Mycroft’s mouth twist at the unwonted familiarity. He looked at the clock: 20:05. What the hell, it wasn’t as though there was anyone waiting. He wheeled across the room on his chair, opening cupboards and drawers at random until he found the disposable gowns.

“Here you go,” he said and tossed one onto the bed. “Put that on and lie down on your left facing the wall.”

Mycroft’s expression of surprise was priceless. Well worth the unpaid overtime. “I wasn't suggesting-” he began.

“I insist,” said John. “The honour of the NHS is at stake. I'd hate to have you telling the Minister you'd received inadequate care.”

“John,“ said Mycroft reproachfully. "I have never involved myself in domestic affairs.”

“Clothes off, gown on, on your side,“ said John and drew the curtain in Mycroft’s startled face.

Rather to his surprise there was no barbed retort. Instead, a few seconds later, he heard the soft swish of fabric as an expensive jacket was removed and carefully folded. All right then. He washed his hands again, found some gloves, a couple of packs of lubricant gel and a box of tissues. Good.

“Ready?” he said, and pulled back the curtain.

He was greeted by sight of the British Government in a hospital gown a little too short, curled obediently on his side. He noticed distantly that the British Government had very long legs and a fine smothering of gingery freckles all across the top of his thighs.

“All right,” he said. “I’m going to undertake an internal examination and check your prostate. At your age, this is something you should think about having done anyway by your normal GP. Have you had an internal exam before?”

“No,” said Mycroft sounding slightly muffled.

“Oh?" John couldn't keep a slight note of surprise from his voice, he'd rather assumed Mycroft was a bit kinky; one of those Senior Civil Servants who spent their weekends lounging around in stockings with an orange up their bum. “Well it’s quite straightforward. Lube goes on, finger goes in and I have a quick check around. Might feel a bit odd but there shouldn’t be any discomfort. Tell me if there is, all right?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft.

It was amazing really, John thought as he squeezed gel onto his fingers, how having their trousers off made even the stroppiest patients compliant. He wondered what Sherlock would make of that piece of information, then decided it was something Sherlock should never know.

“Bring your knees up to your chest” he said.

There was a pause, then Mycroft obeyed. John did a quick visual inspection: everything looked fine, nice and healthy. The bed was set up for a right hander, another petty irritation in a day of petty irritations. He ended facing Mycroft’s feet, which were as long and pale as the rest of him and pedicured too by the looks of them.

“Breath out for me please.”

Mycroft gave a long rather shaky exhale and John slid a single careful finger past clenching muscles into the always surprising heat of the human body. He paused, letting Mycroft adjust to the new sensation, imagining the conversation back at Baker Street:

_\- How was your day, John?_

_\- Oh, I spent it with my finger up your brother’s bum. He’s got a decent pair of pins on him, I’ll give him that._

Ridiculous of course; Sherlock would never ask how his day had been.

“Okay?” he said after a second.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. He sounded surprised.

“Good,” said John. “Let’s give you a quick once over then.”

He found the prostate gland straight away: a round little bump, a couple of inches in on the anterior wall. He palpated it carefully, checking for tenderness. The left lateral lobe felt fine - firm and smooth - the right lateral lobe felt fine and-

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft’s toes curl.

John paused. There hadn’t been any verbal indications of distress, on the other hand stiff upper lip and all that. “All right up there?”

“Fine thank you, John,” said Mycroft after a moment. His toes slowly unfurled.

“Doctor John,” John insisted, feeling some of his irritation return. He’d worked bloody hard to get that qualification and he wasn’t about to be stripped of it by some public schoolboy with a plum in his mouth.

Ok. So left lobe: fine, right lobe: fine and up and along the central groove of the median sulcus and that-

Mycroft’s toes curled.

John paused and waited. This time they took a good five seconds to uncurl: interesting. Once more for luck then, a bit quicker this time. Left, right, middle and-

“Oh fuck,” said Mycroft in his well-mannered voice.

Well that appeared conclusive. Mycroft Holmes, the British Government when he wasn’t busy being the Secret Service or the CIA, apparently had an intensely erotic response to prostate stimulation.

Now what would a good doctor do about that?

 


	2. Chapter 2

Well that was easy. A good doctor would make some light comment, finish up the examination as quickly as possible and possibly make a cryptic note on the patient’s file.

A _very_ good doctor would make a light comment, carry out the full examination as sensitively as possible and perhaps have a little chat afterwards about how, properly administered, certain forms of internal massage could enhance patient well-being and how tailor-made devices, widely available on the internet, were almost always preferable to homemade alternatives, as long as a proper sanitisation regime were followed.

Proceeding with the examination in a way which would deliberately stimulate the patient further would, on the other hand, be the response of a very bad doctor. He considered. Or, possibly, of an excellent one. Mycroft was clearly under a lot of stress, being stimulated to a peak of intense sexual pleasure might be just what the doctor ordered. Treat the whole man, as his patient care lecturer had used to say. Although this was probably wasn't what she'd had in mind.

Career suicide, in all likelihood.

John looked down to where his hand entered the pliant body of the most dangerous man he’d ever met and flexed his finger experimentally. There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Bit of sensitivity there, I think?” he said.

“Apparently," said Mycroft. "Yes."

“Intense or dull, would you say?” He kept his tone professional, nothing that would get him into trouble with the GMC.

“Quite intense,” said Mycroft after a moment. His face was hidden, but the back of his neck had turned a rich, deep pink.

“Any urgency at all?”

“Sorry?”

“Urgency,” said John and circled the pad of his finger right over the centre of that firm little bump. Mycroft yelped, the muscles surrounding John’s finger squeezed tight and hard. Good strong reflex, he noted. “Take that as a yes then, shall I?” he said. “Ok, relax while I remove my hand. I’d better check that out. Over onto your hands and knees for me, please.”

Mycroft peered over his shoulder, his normally sharp eyes a little dazed. “Is that quite necessary?” he said. “You seem to have been very thorough.”

John simply smiled and waited, letting his Aesculapian authority speak for itself. After a moment Mycroft lowered his gaze and rolled carefully onto his knees, tugging down the gown with touching dignity.

“That’s good,” said John. “Spread your legs a bit wider, you’re rather high up."

Mycroft shuffled his knees apart a cautious inch.

“Little bit wider,” John urged, “keep going.”

He waited until Mycroft’s thighs were spread wide apart. His arse was round, soft and just slightly plump with a fine covering of freckles. Beneath the hem of the gown his balls were clearly visible, tight and high to his body, his pubic hair carefully trimmed to a few millimetres long. His arse was round and soft and just slightly plump.

“Will this take long?” said Mycroft. “It’s not terribly comfortable.”

John shrugged, then realised Mycroft wasn't able to see him. “Takes as long as it takes, I'm afraid," he said and ripped open a new packet of gel. The noise made Mycroft jump.

“I thought you shut at eight?”

“Nick won’t mind. He’s obliging like that.” The wet sound of the gel squirting onto his fingers was loud in the quiet room, and slightly obscene.

“Nick?”

“Receptionist.”

“His name badge said 'Rick'.”

“That’s right,” said John. That was the Holmes’s for you, never missed an opportunity to show off their superior skills of observation. “Now drop your shoulders right down onto the bed."

No particular reason for that but he liked the thought of it: Mycroft Holmes on his knees, face on the table, arse in the air. Mycroft obeyed without comment. Interesting.

“I’m going to use two fingers this time,” he said conversationally and heard a definite catch in Mycroft's breathing. “So I’m going to spend a bit of time opening you up first. Let's get your gown out of the way.”

He slid the gown down Mycroft’s back until it bunched uselessly beneath his armpits, a mere sop to modesty, then spent a few moments working the gel over his fingers.

“Ready Mycroft?” he said when he’d finished.

"Yes Doctor," said Mycroft.

He used the fingers of his right hand to part Mycroft’s cheeks, pausing for a few long seconds to let him appreciate the vulnerability of his position. When he thought that message had registered, he ran a single slick finger along the downy cleft, making the skin glisten. He paused with his fingers against Mycroft’s perineum and pressed lightly inwards until he found the prostate.  

“Some congestion here, I think,” he observed and began massaging the soft skin in slow circles, “let’s see if we can work that out.”

Mycroft shuddered at the words, his buttocks clenching convulsively. Beneath his slowly circling hand, John saw a single tell-tale drop of clear fluid of appear on the surface of the examination table. Mycroft apparently also found external prostate massage intensely stimulating.

“How does that feel, any better?” he said, keeping his tone light, condescending.

“I-,” said Mycroft, he swallowed audibly, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “Yes, fine,” he managed and buried his face in the crook of his elbow.

John massaged for a while longer, admiring the mottled pink flush spreading up Mycroft’s thighs and across his arse, the way his skin had begun to take on a fine sheen of sweat.

Mycroft jerked beneath his hands, without warning. A second, larger, droplet joined the first.

John tutted. “You're starting to make a bit of a mess down there, Mycroft,” he said.

Mycroft made a strangled noise but didn’t reply. Even through his gloves, John could feel the heat of his skin, the hectic beat of his racing pulse. “I think that’s enough for now,” he decided. Didn't want a cardiac arrest on his hands.

Mycroft nodded into his elbow.

John spread him open once more, applied more lube and began working at the sphincter with his thumb, carefully stretching out the tight muscle. Every so often he would dip in an exploratory finger. By the time he’d repeated the procedure three or four times, Mycroft’s hips were making little abortive thrusts of their own, straining for more stimulation.

“Almost there,” John said and slid two fingers inside, with a single rapid stroke which slid right over the centre of Mycroft’s prostate. Mycroft gave a muffled shout and shoved back hard in reaction, sending a sharp jolt of pain up his arm and into his bad shoulder.

“Don’t,” he said sharply and slapped Mycroft on the thigh, leaving white finger marks across the pink skin. Mycroft cried out as though he’d been shot, the muscles in his arse spasmed and for a second John thought he’d sent him  over the edge but the examination table remained unsullied, Mycroft arched above it.

They both froze, panting.

“Control yourself,” said John when his pain had subsided, “or I’ll stop.” He didn’t have to fake the threat in his voice. “Is that what you want? I’ll stop and I’ll send you home just like this.”

“No,” said Mycroft. “No, I don’t –.” He stopped and gathered himself with what, John had to admit, was a pretty admirable display of fortitude given the circumstances. “My apologes Doctor Watson, it won’t happen again.”

“All right,” said John. He flexed his wrist, then without warning plunged his fingers deep inside the heat of Mycroft’s arse. Mycroft quivered but didn’t complain. “Getting there,” he said. He twisted his hand stretching the tight muscle a little wider, added more lube and did it again. Soon his fingers were moving smoothly, pistoning in and out without resistance. “Right then. I think we’re ready to begin, don’t you?"


	3. Chapter 3

He started off with a careful circling massage that made Mycroft curse, but after a while moved on to more advanced techniques. Rubbing the side and top of the prostate simultaneously, he discovered, made Mycroft lose speech entirely and resort to a muffled kind of warbling which John found rather endearing.

“Come on,” he said, making his voice encouraging, “let’s work a little more of that tension out, eh?” He increased his pace until another long thread of fluid joined the small puddle now spreading across the surface of the examination table. “That’s good, little bit more?”

“Mfgg!” said Mycroft.

John stilled his fingers so Mycroft could speak. “Sorry?”

Mycroft lifted his head. His face was scarlet, his mouth hung open, his eyes were screwed shut. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” said John firmly. He was sure of it. John had taken him right up to the edge twice. The first time Mycroft had needed a sharp tug on his balls to stop him going over. The second time, he'd stopped himself. Obviously a quick learner.

“Please,” said Mycroft and then as John turned his wrist so his knuckles were facing downwards, providing a different, firmer pressure to his prostate, “oh God, oh yes, all right oh-”

The warbling began again. John worked him through it, stopping just as he hit the highest notes and holding him there with the lightest of touches before easing back and sliding  his hand free. His arm was getting tired.

“Sherlock says you’re lazy,” he remarked, as Mycroft sprawled on the table, catching his breath, “but I find with a lot of my patients it’s just a lack of appropriate incentive.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. A man of your age, Mycroft; you’ve got to take care of your cardiac health.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Mycroft, with somewhat less than his usual acerbity. “I shall bear that in mind, if you don’t kill me first.”

“So I think it's only right, I prescribe you some exercises," John said, ignoring him. “Do you want to come, Mycroft?”

“Oh yes,” said Mycroft without hesitation, his mouth curved upwards at the thought. “I should like that very much, yes.”

“Well, here's your chance.” He gripped his left wrist with his right hand and rested his elbow on the table.

Mycroft opened his eyes and stared at him.

“Come on,” said John. “Try a bit harder. Brain like yours, you’ll work it out.”

Mycroft's eyes moved to his hand, back to his face. 

“Come on," he urged. "What are you going to do now, Mycroft?”

“I believe, Doctor,” said Mycroft and it probably wasn’t possible for him to turn much redder but John thought he gave it a decent try, “that I'm about to fuck myself on your fingers.”

 

* * *

  
It took a bit of manoeuvring, but Mycroft soon worked out that if he raised himself upwards, he could angle John’s fingers to hit directly against his prostate on every stroke. After that he became very motivated indeed, got one foot up on the bed, thigh at an angle which John wouldn’t have thought possible, planted both hands on the wall and bounced energetically, back and leg muscles working overtime, hair flopping across his forehead, warbling in delight.

It was a hell of a sight, thought John: Mycroft Holmes, drenched in sweat, dressed in a blue hospital gown barely long enough to cover his straining erection, squatting on an examination table, getting himself off through vigorous prostate stimulation. Unfortunately after a couple of minutes, John’s wrist was aching; Mycroft’s legs had begun shaking with fatigue and the table was starting to make alarming noises. Give him another twenty more seconds, then-

A knock on the door.

Mycroft froze mid-bounce. John, with a soldier’s presence of mind, drew the curtain.

“What is it?” he called.

“Doctor Watson? It’s Rick.”

John rolled his eyes, “All right Rick? Won’t be long; I’m just finishing up with Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft’s hips gave a frenetic jerk. Never a truer word spoken.

“I’ve got your timesheet, shall I bring it in?”

Mycroft shook his head frantically. John stared up at him, career suicide for both of us if we’re caught, he thought.

Better not get caught then.

"Yeah, bring it in,” he called, grinning at Mycroft’s expression of shock and began drumming his fingers lightly against the centre of Mycroft’s prostate, feeling an answering squeeze as the muscles in his legs and arse began to tighten.

The door opened. “Oh sorry,” said Rick, seeing the closed curtain.

“Just drop in on the desk,” said John drumming faster as Mycroft opened his mouth and very deliberately bit down onto his fist.

Rapid footsteps across the floor. “There you go, then.”

“Ok, ta. We won’t keep you much longer.” The tremor in Mycroft’s thighs had spread up his back and along his arms. John began the slow circling movement that Mycroft enjoyed most, saw his back begin to arch, his mouth stretch into a silent scream.

“No worries, Doctor Watson.” More quick footsteps. The door closed.

“Cheers Rick!” he yelled, and stilled his hand.

Mycroft removed his fist and flopped against the wall, wheezing. Perhaps it was time to be merciful.

"It’s half past,” John said. “I give it five minutes tops before he starts banging on the door again, trying to get rid of us.”

Mycroft nodded, still struggling for breath.

“All right, back onto your knees.”

Mycroft collapsed gratefully downwards, leaving behind a series of sweaty handprints covering the wall.

“Want to come?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “Oh yes. So very much so, yes.”

“All right. Hold out your hand,” he deposited the last of the sachet of gel into Mycroft’s waiting palm. “Now wank yourself off, fast as you can. You’ve got two minutes.”

As it happened, it didn’t take even half of that. A few quick tugs of Mycroft's hand and a series of powerful pulses contracted around John's fingers. A fraction of a second later Mycroft shuddered and came, in a seemingly endless series of long spurts that shot across the examination table and splattered up the wall.

“Oh. My. Fuck,” he enunciated perfectly when he was done and sagged onto his belly, gasping for air.


	4. Chapter 4

“Right,” said John after a moment. He stripped off his gloves, rubbed his wrist and stared down at Mycroft’s prone form. The British Government. He was still breathing at least.

_What have I just done?_

“I’ll just leave you to clean up then shall I?” he said. “There’s um, there’s some tissues on the side and-“

“Thank you, John,” said Mycroft.

Beetroot red, dressed only in a rucked up hospital gown and lying in a pool of his own semen as he was, it was still, quite unmistakably, a dismissal.

“Ok,” said John. “I’ll just...”

He closed the curtain.

After a moment he sat back down at the desk, tapped away at the computer, bit pointless as there was no record of a Mycroft Holmes, filled out his timesheet, checked his mobile - still nothing from Sherlock - and awaited his fate.

The curtain opened and Mycroft emerged, smooth and unruffled as ever with only a flush high upon his cheekbones and a perfect set of teethmarks across his knuckles to suggest anything untoward had occurred. He sat without being asked, wincing slightly, folded his hands on top on his umbrella and regarded John unblinkingly.

Christ, thought John a trifle hysterically, it’s a concealed sword. He’s going to skewer me and cut me up into a thousand pieces. They’ll never find my body; Sherlock’s going to be _really_ pissed off.

He swivelled his chair to face death head on.

“A rather unorthodox examination, Doctor Watson,” said Mycroft eventually.

“You had a problem,” said John, “I administered a treatment. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” said Mycroft. “I shall sleep well tonight, I think.”

He looked thoughtfully at his umbrella.

“So what‘s the deal with Doctor Pearson?” John said, when the silence had grown too long to bear.

Mycroft sighed, “When I was a younger man, I experienced some similar problems. Doctor Pearson was not particularly sympathetic and I’m afraid to say I took it rather to heart.”

“Oh,” said John. Previous history of PC muscle weakness, the part of his mind which wasn’t watching Mycroft’s hands noted. “You should definitely try the exercises then,” he heard himself say.

“Yes thank you, I have your leaflet,” said Mycroft. He touched his pocket then hesitated. “I should mention,” he said, “it would be rather embarrassing both on a political and a personal level were my sudden exits known to be due to matters more prosaic than calls from the Minister. I hope I can rely on your discretion? I assure you, you can rely on mine.”

John blinked, unwinding that sentence slowly. “You’re my patient, Mycroft.”

“Not all doctors take matters of patient confidentiality to heart, alas.”

“So,” John said slowly, “your silence in return for mine? I don’t discuss your medical matters, you don’t mention my-”

“Unorthodox medical treatments,” said Mycroft. “Yes. I always find it useful to have these things spelled out.”

“Mycroft,” said John. “Are you threatening me?”

Mycroft looked pained. “No, Doctor Watson. I am merely pointing out that you and I are in a state of, now what did we call it during the Cold War...?”

“Mutually Assured Destruction?” suggested John.

“Armed Neutrality,” said Mycroft. “And it would be best for both of us were it to stay that way. Is that quite clear?”

“Quite clear,” said John.

“Good,” said Mycroft, “Excellent. Well I must say this has all been _very_ illuminating. Have an...interesting evening. I can find my own way out.”

“Mycroft,” blurted John as Mycroft stood.

Mycroft gave a faint smile and tilted his head. “Yes?” he said.

_Did you just manipulate me into getting you off?_

The words wouldn’t come. Mycroft gazed down at him, his expression utterly guileless and totally opaque.

“Good night, Doctor Watson,” he said eventually. His footsteps, making their way down the corridor, seemed a little lighter than when he had arrived.

_Or did you just manipulate me into thinking you’d just manipulated me into getting you off?_

 

_\- He is the most dangerous man you’ve ever met._

 

John exhaled, put his head in his hands, ruffled his hair and counted to ten. When the pounding in his chest had eased he pressed the button on the intercom.

“All right Rick, Mr Holmes has just left. I’ll be with you in five, just got to tidy up.”

“All right Doctor Watson; the last ones are always the most complicated aren’t they?”

“Aren’t they just,” he said. “Thanks Rick.”

 

He pottered around the office for a few minutes, shutting down the computer and cleaning off the examination table before putting on his coat. He fancied an Indian takeaway and an early night.

His hand had just touched the door handle when two things happened simultaneously.

His mobile buzzed. A new text message from Sherlock: _Breakthrough on the Missing Stockbroker case. Need your assistance. Come immediately._

The intercom light turned on.

“Doctor Watson," Rick sounded alarmed, "can you come to reception? There’s a man outside, I think he’s had some kind of accident - he’s covered in blood."

“On my way,” called John. He took one last look around, turned out the lights and shut the door behind him.


End file.
